


but thy eternal summer shall not fade

by buries



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Future, Established Relationship, F/M, Future Fic, Paint Kink, Porn with Feelings, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-23
Updated: 2016-03-23
Packaged: 2018-05-28 13:49:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6331624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buries/pseuds/buries
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>shall i compare thee to a summer's day?</i> or the one where bellamy inspires clarke.</p>
            </blockquote>





	but thy eternal summer shall not fade

**Author's Note:**

  * For [geckoholic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/geckoholic/gifts).



> i told geckoholic i don't think i could ever write bellamy/clarke in a shippy way, and so she challenged me to do just that. honestly, i don't know what this is. i wanted to try and write something shippy, thought of paint, got thinking about painting and sex, and then this was born.
> 
> note: this is set in the very far future.
> 
> for geckoholic, for not only being an enabler and someone who is so easy to talk to about everything under the sun, but for your very inspirational and incredible words of encouragement.
> 
> unbeta'd, so all mistakes are mine. the title is from william shakespeare's sonnet 18. thanks for reading. ♥

Her fingertips are the bristles that brush over him, seeing him arch his back away from her light touch. Gliding the tips of her fingers, the edge of her blunt nails, along the curve of his spine delights her in a way a still and stagnant canvas won’t.

Lying in her bed, sheets thrown over his waist, Bellamy lies on his stomach, elbows digging hard into the mattress, as he reads a book aloud. She can hear his voice, the roughness of his low tones, as he doesn’t so much as stumble. Sometimes she thinks he pretends he hasn’t memorised each word, each syllable and letter, even though she knows he has with how familiar his tongue seems to let them leap from his lips and bound toward her. 

He flushes when she watches him read, ducks his head and glows the deepest of reds when she comments on it. The familiarity, the intimacy, he treats each and every word he reads and recalls compels her to take her brush or charcoal to paper and memorise it on a page in her notebook.

Wearing his shirt, she feels it drape over her like his shadow. Swallowing her whole, the candles in her bunk keep the shadows at bay. She can’t work in pure darkness, not like him and his stories, remembering them as though they’re written on the cold ceiling of Arkadia’s skeleton.

Sitting beside him with a notebook in hand, Clarke drags her wet brush over it. Smearing a dark blue against her own canvas, she spreads it out, smoothing it from one corner to the other.

She listens to him read more than she focuses on creating on her canvas. Hearing him turn the page of his thin book, she knows the sonnet he’s about to read, and thinks to throw her brush at his thick mess of a head to halt him.

Hearing the smile in his voice, he asks innocently, “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?”

Within the breath he takes, she shakes her head. “No.”

“Thou art more lovely and more temperate — Hey!” She drags her brush against his back, leaving a curved dark smear along his side. He shivers, and the curve of her mouth tilts devilishly upward.

Peering over his shoulder, he tries to see what she’s done. Biting the bottom of her lip, she arches her brow when he looks at her.

"I said no.”

“The lady doth protest too much,” he says, arching his own brow as though to add to his matter-of-fact tone.

“And the rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, Bellamy,” she says. She feels hot when she sees him smile, almost shy in the way he ducks his head. “Read me another one. A _new_ one.”

“I’ve read you all of these ten times in the past week, Clarke,” he says. He looks to his book, scans it, possibly checking the words are still there and as he remembers them. “Even from the bottom up. They’re not going to change.”

“Then pick another one to tease me with,” she says. And drags her brush, paint thinner than before, along his back. Drawing two parallel lines on his side, she thinks she’s successfully connected his freckles in a manner that leaves a more softer mark than her nails do.

Looking over his shoulder, she sees him smile. “No,” he says, looking up at her. “Maybe I want you to be inspired.”

“I _am_ inspired,” she sighs, exasperated.

He turns back to his book. With a tilt of his head, she anticipates what he does next. “And summer’s lease hath all too short a date —” Watching his smile widen, she brushes the bristles against his back again. Leaning backward toward her nightstand, she dips it into the dollop of paint, holding her hand beneath it in case it chooses to drip.

“Keep going,” she warns. “I’ll cover you from head to toe until you stop.”

Bellamy smirks. “Sometime too hot the eye —” He sucks in a breath when she drags the paint brush down the slope of his spine, from the middle of his shoulder blades to the small of his back. She doesn’t care it brushes against her folded sheets over his hips.

Without waiting for him to pick up the line, she spreads the thick streak of paint, smoothing it out as she brushes it away from his spine. He remains quiet as she evens it out, tongue poking out of the corner of her mouth until she realises what she’s doing.

“I told you, Bellamy,” she says quietly, focusing on the curve of his back and how she smooths out the paint. She isn’t so sure of what she’s trying to create on him, but she likes the lines, the thinness of the dark blue as it covers his back like armour. “I’m inspired.”

Clarke waits for him to read again, but when she looks at him, she sees him peering over his shoulder, watching her. Looking at his cheek, she lifts the brush and moves it toward him, brushing it with paint. She grins widely, reaching upward to brush her fingers against it to smooth it away from crawling toward his eye.

Dropping her hand, she watches his smile curve upward as she glides her fingers along his shoulder, watching as the thick dark blue thins as she paints it over the slope as though it’s a shoulder pad. A bit of armour. The thickest and most expensive metal one can possibly forge.

He doesn’t look at her when he asks, “Are you building me armour?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t need it,” he says, glancing toward her. Clarke makes sure to not look at him, biting her bottom lip as she focuses on trying to smoothly smear the paint over his skin. Each stroke is akin to a hammer beating metal into submission, shaping it into a shoulder pad, a gauntlet, a chest plate.

Holding her brush in her right hand, she drags the fingers of her left down his spine, making sure to leave a slight line of exposed skin along the curve of it. He arches away from her, then into her, as her finger collects the excess paint.

Turning toward him, she drags it along his jaw. 

“The eye of heaven shines,” she recites, leaning forward to focus on smearing the paint underneath his jaw. She can feel his gaze on her, hot and unwavering, but she tries not to look at him as she smears it along his face.

Looking up at him, she holds his gaze, and doesn’t move back, despite thinking to. Quietly, she says, “Roll over, Bellamy.”

Closing the book, he pushes it onto the mattress above the pillow they’ve pulled part of the way down the bed. He does as she asks, rolling onto his back, uncaring for the state of her linens.

She leans toward her nightstand, picking up the thin slab of wood with the paint dollop on it. Holding it in her hand, she looks at it, then rests it on the bed by her bare knee.

“I told you I’m inspired,” she says, swiping the paintbrush into the paint. She captures a good portion of it, watching as it clings to the bristles as he had once done so to a cliff side. “And you’ve always told me to never let that go.”

She doesn’t look at him as she leans forward, swiping the paintbrush along his abdomen. She watches as he sucks in his muscles before he relaxes, letting her brush the blue against him. Feeling him looking at her, Clarke keeps her head bowed, grateful her hair shields some of her profile from him.

Quietly, she continues, “You’ve always inspired me. Maybe it’s time I show you that.”

“Clarke —”

“And often is his gold complexion dimm’d,” she murmurs. Drawing a line down his chest, she doesn’t spread the paint. Instead, she drags it into the dollop on the wood again, drawing a diagonal line from his shoulder to his breastbone. Again, she doesn’t try to thin it out, leaving it as a thick and uneven line.

Leaving the paintbrush on the wood, she moves. Straddling him, she feels his shirt ride up, the warmth of his skin heat her wet thighs. She dips her fingers of her left hand into the paint, scooping it up into the pads. Pressing them against his neck, she drags them down the slope of it, along his collarbone, and down his sternum.

His fingers press against her hipbones beneath the shirt, but he otherwise stays still. With her hand pressed against his heart, she can feel it pound as loud and hard as her own. His gaze is dark, dimming as the words she’d spoken reverberate around her. But she doesn’t find his gold complexion darkens, defying the sonnet as the summer only seems to brighten.

Hooking her fingers into the hem of his shirt, she pulls it up and over her head, dropping it to the side. As naked as him, she feels his gaze on her, gliding along her neck and collarbone, down her torso and to her hips. He’s seen it all before, studied her as she does the paintings they’ve saved from Mount Weather, but he looks at her each and every time as though he hasn’t spent hours learning her texture, the reasoning behind the hues chosen to depict her on a canvas.

Leaning forward, she brushes her fingers against his clean cheek, smiling at the three uneven lines left in her wake. Admiring her handiwork, she reaches up to brush her fingers near his eye when she feels his arms wrap around her waist instead.

Pulled toward his chest, she can feel the paint smear against and stick to her. “Bellamy!” she gasps with a laugh, and finds that he brushes his cheek, the one she’d only moments ago smeared, against her own. “Bellamy, stop!”

But she finds he doesn't listen, the breath knocked out of her as he slopes his mouth hard against hers only seconds later. Settling against him, her hands curve around his shoulders, palms wet against the paint. Sighing into his mouth, she lifts a hand to cradle his face, wet fingers brushing against his skin.

Smiling, she mumbles against his mouth, “How do I compare thee to dark blue paint?”

She feels him shrug his shoulders. “Don’t know,” he murmurs. Pressing his lips against the corner of her own, she closes her eyes as he kisses her cheek, then trails his way back to her mouth to nip at her bottom lip. “Show me.”

Sloping his mouth against hers, his hands move to her back, gliding hard down her spine as he prompts her to arch into him. Feeling his hands reach down the length of him, she feels the blankets that sit half over his waist and underneath her shift. Lifting herself up, he pulls them away, and she moves herself to straddle his hips.

He’s hard against her, and she feels warm from it, opening her legs slightly to shift against him. Feeling his cock against the inside of her leg, she begins to roll her hips in a slow circle.

Arms wrapping around her, she lets him roll them. Lying on her back, she bends her knees, opening her legs so she can cradle him between them. He kisses the slope of her neck, causing her to arch and sigh as she closes her eyes and feels him press his own comparisons into her skin.

Her hands grip at his back, nails digging into his skin. She can feel the paint smear and web itself between her and him, and doesn’t care for it. Her nails may leave streaks of white against his back, but the blue will be as permanent for however long he allows it. Connecting the freckles guarding his spine, she’ll be able to build her own constellation, draw her own mythological figure in the sky of his skin. And she hopes for him to leave it there, let it dry and eventually weather away, letting him be a canvas for her to marvel at as she does each and every day.

Moving down her throat to her collarbone, he leaves a trail of kisses in his wake as he descends to the valley of her breasts. Holding her breath, she swears he smiles against her skin, perhaps at the racing of her heart as it pounds loud and steadily and ferociously in her own ears. 

Arching into him, she moans as his mouth moves to the swell of her breast. Hand against her shoulder, she can feel the slickness of paint against her skin, and realises, when she turns her head to the side, that he’s dipped his fingers into the dollop on her palette.

Feeling his fingers curve into her shoulder, he draws a line blindly from the slope of it to her collarbone. There’s no freckles on her to connect together, nothing intriguing or artistic about the complexion of her own skin, but she finds herself enamoured by his touch nonetheless. 

Biting at the swell of her breast, he sucks at her skin, hand dragging down the valley of them as he does so. She arches into him, hearing her own panting stick to the walls of her room like the paint has to his skin.

Snatching her hand away from his back where her blunt nails try to embed themselves into his flesh, she plants her hand in his hair and tugs. Hearing and feeling him groan, it reverberating through her, she does it again, harder this time. “Come here,” she whispers roughly. 

Remaining where he is for a moment longer, she drags her nails along his scalp, hears and feels him moan again, and whines in the back of her throat at the sudden chill that brushes against her breast when he leaves it to heed her request.

Brushing his mouth underneath her jaw, she lets her nails drag down his neck. Feeling him shiver, she grins, and digs her nails harder into the space between his shoulder blades. She keeps her hands there, dragging her fingers hard against his back, tracing his spine to elicit shiver after shiver. She finds it disrupts him at her neck, mouth opening to breathe heavily against her throat where he sucks and nips.

Pressing half crescents into his back, it’s cockily she digs her nails into his skin harder. Grinning smugly, she gasps when she feels him inside of her. Arching her back, her legs wrap around his waist as he moves slowly. Rocking his hips into her, she feels him almost pull himself away from her completely, and locks her legs tighter around him, as though her mere strength will be anything like his Greek heroes, to keep him in place.

Kissing beneath her ear, she can hear his breath, uneven and hard, burn into and warm her skin. Nails digging into his back, she thrusts a hand into his hair to tug at it when she feels him thrust sharply into her.

His groan reverberates through her, climbs down her throat to her chest, sinks somewhere into the bottom of her ribcage before it marches its way up to seize her heart in its erratic beating. As soon as its fingers wrap around her, it leaves, climbing up the ladder of her throat for her to return the sound to him in her own moan.

“Bellamy,” she pants, and finds his mouth near her own. There’s a hot press of his lips near the corner of hers, his hips locking sharply into her own as he moves inside of her. Lifting her hips off the bed, she feels his hands grip her waist, dig beneath her ass to lock her to him.

“Finish it,” she hears him, voice loud and sharp, but his words broken as she can hear a tremor of a moan rock through him. His thrusts become sharper, harder, his hands gripping her ass hard to help her rock into him. 

“Every fair from fair —” Despite how tightly she tries to hold onto the words, Clarke arches beneath him, distracted by how hot he feels, of his hands on her ass, of him at her neck. Clenching around him, she hears him groan, and finds her parted lips curve into a smile that feels as delicious as him slotted against her. 

Swallowing thickly, she breathes out, “Sometimes declines —” Rocking sharply into him, she hears him moan again, a curse pressed into the flesh of her neck. “By thy eternal summer shall not fade.”

His hands grip her hips hard, fingers denting her skin and possibly the bone with how he tries to move her onto him. She tries to move faster, against his hands and with them.

“When in eternal lines to time thou growest —” She kisses the corner of his mouth roughly, dragging her hands down his back. “So long as men can breathe —” Her breath hitches as she feels him pull himself away from her until the head of his cock sits inside of her, sitting for a mere moment before thrusting into her sharply. Her moan swallows the rest of the verse, back arching as she grips at his shoulders, nails breathing his skin.

His hips rock harder into her own, fingers digging into the skin of his back as she clenches around him. Arching her back, she comes loudly, legs wrapping tight around him, heel pressed to the small of his back as he rocks into her.

He bites at her bottom lip, dragging it between his teeth. Pressing her mouth hard and sloppily against his, she digs her heel into his back, rocks sharply up into him until she feels him tense. The rocking of his hips are erratic until she feels him still against her, mouth pressed against her own as his lips part and he moans. 

She licks at the bottom of his lip, palming his back, paint smearing along the heels of her hands as she holds him close to her chest. His hands hold her hips against his own before he presses his weight into her, anchoring her to the bed. Tilting his head away, she misses the warmth and shape of his mouth.

Kissing beneath her neck, she can feel Bellamy breathe, his heart hammering loudly in his chest. His hips shift against hers and she tries to bite back her whimper, and swears she feels him smirk against her throat.

“So long lives this,” she whispers, breathing hard as she brushes her fingers through his hair. Encouraging him to lift his head up toward her, she kisses his mouth, and murmurs against his lips, “And this gives life to thee.”

“You missed half of the lines,” he whispers, words slightly rough as he tries to catch his breath. Swallowing thickly, she traces his bottom lip with her finger, finding only a faint streak of blue outlines it.

Staring up at him, she lets her eyes trace the shape of his lips, watching as he seems to bite the bottom one before he thinks better of it. He can feel her stare. Eyes going unfocused for a mere moment, she knows he’s watching her gaze up at him as though he’s hung the seasons around the earth.

His hand reaches out to brush against her forehead, wet fingers catching a few stray strands sticking to her damp temple. She can feel the blue smear across her forehead, and finds herself smiling almost shyly at it.

“Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?” she smiles, loosening her legs around him. Feeling him settle against her, hips cradled between her legs, she brushes her foot against the back of his upper thigh. Shaking her head, she looks up at him and she shrugs. “I can’t.”


End file.
